


Dreams and Eames

by HardiganCaptain



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardiganCaptain/pseuds/HardiganCaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What started out as a lark has turned into an on going fic. Bear with me, yeah?</p><p>Life is going fantastic for you, not only did you get a raise in pay you got a promotion. That guy you've been daydreaming about asks you out.  The sex is amazing. But it's after he leaves on some kind of business that things start to go wrong, there are memories pressing against your mind that you're not sure you can handle. You keep saying things that don't make sense not ten minutes later. You're pretty sure that you're losing your mind, but Eames is there soothing you, gently prodding you to remember, and you don' t know why but the memories terrify you like nothing else does</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’re not expecting much to happen that day, another repetitious work day, another ten hours of your life you could have spent doing something that didn’t leave you feeling drained. Still your evaluation is coming up and you have it straight from the horse’s mouth that not only will you be getting that raise you’d hoped for but a rather nice bonus as well.

Tired but happy you’re waiting for the elevator when he comes around the corner. Almost immediately you shift your gaze elsewhere, just enough that your not looking at him head on. There’s something about him, nothing you can quite put your finger on, but the day dreams alone are enough to bring colour to your cheeks when he passes your desk during your shift. You can’t help the half step you take away from him, aiming for subtle but apparently failing because his full lips twist lightly with amusement.

The whole ride down you can’t help but be aware of how small the space is, the smell of his cologne filling your nose, and you can’t help but wish you were higher on the corporate ladder so you had something in common to talk about. As the doors slide open you hesitate, wanting one last moment to watch the way his jacket pulls tightly across his shoulders and back. The problem is he’s not moving, those moss green eyes shifting to you out of the corner of his eye. 

A soft sound reaches your ears and at first you don’t recognize it, the sound of the elevator doors sliding shut. A thud as his hand reaches out to try and catch them, only to have his palm brush against the metal. Great, you’re cursing yourself to hell and back again, the meter for your car only has a few minutes left and recently traffic cops have just been itching to set cars up for a tow. Lucky for you the next person needing a ride in the lift is only one floor away, and this time you practically leap out of the elevator to dash to your car. Something warm brushes the palm of your hand, your fingers closing reflexively even as your legs stretch to a fast clip.

Your car is gone, the meter flashing a bright red, a yellow slip of paper telling you where it is and to have a nice day. Crumpling it you stuff it into your pocket and lift the other to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The dry rasp of paper makes you jump, hand flying down to see a torn post it note in your palm. Written on it in a spidery script is one word, Dinner? 

Blinking slowly in surprise you turn to look back at the building you exited, looking for anyone who might have done it. A fleeting thought, quickly crushed, is that it’s from him. Seeing no one you turn towards the bus station at the end of the block, of course you could afford a cab, but you’ve nothing better to do so why not take the long way home.

“You walk home from here? You must live close.” the words go unnoticed at first, it’s only the low purr of the engine that finally drags your attention to the car that’s been rolling beside you. He’s leaning across the seat smiling up at you and that one crooked tooth is more charming than you can bear. “It’s a bit sudden but, Dinner?”

“A note? Really? We’re not in high school anymore.” your tone is teasing, your lips curling in reciprocation of his. 

“I tried emails but apparently secret admirers go right over your head.”

Your mouth falls open a bit, staring at him in surprise. You’d gotten several emails over the past couple of weeks that you assumed were some kind of office prank, each one read and then deleted. Still you couldn’t help smiling a bit, they’d been sweet, sometimes hinting at meeting in the break room but no one had ever moved to sit with you so you’d dismissed them for the most part.

“What’d you have in mind?” the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, clearing your throat against the self conscious laugh that’s rising in it.

He drives you back to your apartment, it’s nothing fancy but it’s not the slums either and that’s good enough. As your getting out of the car he winks at you, that charming smile on his lips again before he drives off with the promise of seeing you again at 8. It takes you a grand total of an hour to get ready, most of that time is spent in the shower because the hot water feels amazing and you’re still trying to figure out when he noticed you.

Not only is he punctual, he’s a bit early, standing on the sloop downstairs easily chatting with a few of your neighbors who are busy trying to figure out his life story. The moment he sees you though his sentence trails off, every ounce of his attention is on you and it’s making you skin warm and your chest tight. There’s a slight tremor to your fingers as you tuck your hair behind your ear, chin dropping down slightly as you try to figure out if maybe you’re a bit over dressed.

Dinner is something you weren’t expecting, a small bistro tucked away amongst the other fancier places. It’s quiet, the dim lighting making it seem so much more intimate than it has any right to be. He doesn’t ask for a corner booth like you assumed he would, instead he asks for a seat at the end of the bar, murmuring something about a long couple of weeks at work. You hide your smile by turning your head to look at the decor.

You’re not even sure what you’re eating, you just let him pick because honestly your stomach is too busy fluttering to be any help at all. The on and off again stares of the other patrons make it hard for you to pay attention to the conversation, their looks are so hostile and you can’t figure out why. He seems to notice how uncomfortable they’re making you, and his fingers brush against the back of your hand, or his shoulder brushes yours and they fade into the background.

“So I hear you’re up for promotion,”

The sudden topic leaves you reeling a bit because you really can’t remember what you two were just talking about, and everyone is staring at you again. It’s sending chills down your spine how they all seem to turn at once. Shifting on your stool you press closer to him, your eyes lowering to stare at your drink, something simple and not too strong you aren’t aiming for drunk.

“Yeah?” you have to clear your throat before you speak again, why are they all staring. “I didn’t know about that, you’re sure though?”

“I heard about it during a meeting when they were talking about possible up and comers. Just thought I’d congratulate you on it.” he gives a playful nudge with his shoulder, leaning down to whisper though the closest people to you are three tables away. “Besides it gave me an excuse to invite you out to dinner in person as it were, since those emails didn’t work.”

“Nice to know it’s not just a raise, then.” you let out a shaky breath, who wouldn’t hope for a promotion but it feels a bit too soon. There are twenty other people in the bistro, all of them staring at you two. You can’t take much more of this, it’s causing an unpleasant shill raising up your spine, knots in your stomach. The more uncomfortable you get the more they seem to stare.

“Why don’t we step outside for a bit of fresh air.” his hand is already on your elbow, lightly pulling you from the chair and towards the door. If you weren’t so hyper aware of the way everyone had been staring at you you wouldn’t even notice the way they all silently turn back to their dinners the moment you all but collapse on his arm relieved to be getting out of there.

“Thanks, Eames. I just don’t do well as the center of attention.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next couple of weeks are kind of fuzzy for you, everything seems to be moving in fast forward. The promotion goes through, it’s not a corner office or anything but the window you have looks out over the park. The party that your bosses threw for you had been interesting to say the least, you probably wouldn’t have stayed for longer than ten minutes if Eames hadn’t been there keeping you from ducking out at the first opportunity. All the congratulations and palm pressing had been damn near unbearable except his broad palm was always right there at the small of your back.

Not only did you get your car out from the impound lot, you finally have the financial backing to give it a bit of cosmetic care that it’s been needing desperately. The trunk now stays down without a bit of wire, the paint job isn’t spotted with rust. A new car would be smarter but you’ve had this car since you moved into the area, sentimentality dictates that you can’t just sell it.

Surprisingly enough Eames agrees with you, even finds a detail shop that does good work. The manager and Eames had seemed familiar together but when you asked he shrugged his shoulders before throwing his arm around yours. You couldn’t help the glance you tossed over your shoulder towards the slim man named Arthur who’d been nothing but smiles and witty conversation.

Despite the fact your car is all gussied up, Eames still takes every opportunity to drive the both of you on your outings. Despite the fact that the little bistro is still there he never takes you back. You’re simultaneously relieved and a bit shame faced about it really, you could tell it had been a favorite spot of his but it seems he has quite a few of those. The small coffee shop you’d never noticed downstairs has a caramel mocha frappe to die for, a rustic diner down at the end of the block has a burger basket you know is going to wreck your figure but you can’t stop going there either.

Through all of this he hasn’t once done more than give you a kiss at the end of the night, his hands resting lightly on your hips, those full lips softer than you had imagined them to be. And then he’s gone, with a small wave of his hand and that smile that makes your heart race and want to stop all at once. Six dates and he hasn’t pushed for anything more than those frustrating kisses. At this point you almost feel like you’re going to scream at the unfairness of it. He’s an attractive guy, who knows he’s attractive, any other man like him would have at least tried to grope your ass by now but he hasn’t.

It’s that tight feeling of your skin, the way your blood seems to boil every time he brushes past you in the office. It’s the way he rests his chin on his hand and stares at you through his lashes as he pretends to slowly edit the papers in front of him during meetings. And never a single move, not one. If this is a slow seduction you find yourself wishing instead that you could go back in time and suffer the Spanish Inquisition. It’d be less painful.

At least once a day you find a message on your phone, so saccharine it makes your teeth ache, and later when you walk past him he grins up at you in a way that makes you cheeks burn. It’s the contradiction of sweet and crass that’s leading to your break down. The shameless day dreams have gotten worse, you’re pretty sure it’s not possible to ache any more than you already do. Through the meetings where his thigh keeps brushing accidentally against yours, his muscled chest against your back when he leans across you to grab something that he could have asked for.

He has this coming, you tell yourself, a firm nod to your reflection in the mirror before feeling utterly ridiculous and childish. The constant burning of your blood, and the feeling between your legs that makes it harder to walk normally are anything but childish as you text him to come over for a movie. You try very hard not to nit pick around the house, you’ve already combed over every inch of it twice. Changed in and out of your pajamas, from the cozy sweats and a shirt you’d stolen from him to something form fitting and smooth to the touch then back again. It’s not that you don’t know how to seduce, well, you’ve never really tried it but how hard could it be?

You almost drop your phone when it vibrates in your palm, the husky whispered text tone making your stomach clench. Probably not your brightest idea to let Eames record a personal message for his tone. The evil bastard had somehow made ‘You’ve got a text, darling, perhaps you should pick up your phone.’ sound like the dirtiest thing in the world. Or maybe it could be the fact that as he’d recorded it, his eyes had been dark beneath his lashes, the lips curling into a seductive smirk as he had handed it back to you. Evil, the man was evil and that’s all there was to it.

It’s as you’re reading his text, confirmation and a promise of your favorite take out, that you realize you have no idea what movie you should choose. Since you’re planning on seducing him should you choose something romantic like, a kind or forewarning? But neither of you are really into those except for something to mock and laugh uproariously. Maybe something scary, something that will give you an excuse to curl close to him and tangle your fingers in his shirt? It really shouldn’t be this hard to figure it out, but all you have in mind is the end goal, Eames in your bed, or the couch, or the floor for all you care. He’s going to be naked by the end of the night, just the thought of slowly working your hands beneath his shirt makes the breath in your lungs rush out with a hint of a whimper curling through it.

Take a breath, you mock yourself, he’s just a guy. But he’s not, not really, he’s gorgeous inside and out. Charming, funny, thoughtful. Broad shouldered, the full lips that hide that crooked tooth that is only seen when he laughs uproariously, those hands that make you feel fragile as glass and hot as fire when they touch you. You’re not saying he’s perfect, nobody is, but he’s sauntering just along that line with a saucy wink and a mischievous smirk to his lips. You feel goosebumps break out over your skin as you remember those chaste kisses, the way his thumbs had lightly stroked the skin along the waistband of your pants beneath your shirt. If he could make you melt with just that what were you going to be like when he was-

Movie. Jesus wept you still needed to actually pick out a movie. If you could watch the almost frantic dive for your movie collection you’d probably laugh hysterically, your fingers trailing along the plastic cases, eyes skimming titles. A screech of frustration is building in your throat when you can’t decide on anything. A romantic comedy, sort of a forewarning without blatantly stating that you had intentions to strip him down and- Your throat closes at the idea of slowly unbuttoning his shirt, your hand sliding inside to rest on his chest as you lean in for a kiss, only to have some neighbor knock on the door. No, no way. Maybe horror? Something to give you an excuse to curl close to him, tucking yourself under his arm to rest your cheek on his chest, your fingers tangling in his shirt during those bits that leave chills down your spine. No, you’ve seen them all, repeatedly, while there’s still a chill it’s not a particularly shocking thing anymore.

A litany of curses roll through your head, some of them so creative you take a moment to be shocked at yourself, when fingers lightly pull the hair away from your neck, lips brush the back of your neck. No you did not gasp, that noise from your throat was not a squeak. You did not just straighten so quickly that the only thing keeping you from toppling over backwards are his hands on your hips. Or maybe you did, because the throaty chuckle behind you crashes through your denial and brings heat to your cheeks as you turn your head to look at him.

“Having a bit of a problem, darling?”

Your lower lip is tucked beneath your teeth as you stare at his throat rather than his eyes, you never seem to be able to be half as suave as you hope you’ll be when he’s around. Everyone compliments you on your cool head, your quick thinking but once Eames shows up everything seems to spiral into pleasurable chaos. His fingers lightly trace your jawline before slipping beneath your chin to lift your face to meet his.There’s a silent apology mingled with the humor that is making his eyes gleam.

“Is that a yes or-” it’s hard to collect your composure with his thumb tracing your lower lip, his voice a low rumble from his chest. You can’t help licking your lips as you stare at his face inches from your own, the tip of your tongue catching the edge of his thumb.

The look in his eyes is something dark, the humor slipping out of them and leaving something else there that makes your skin tingle from the tip of your fingertips to your toes which have curled in the carpet. Your eyes dart back and forth between his, opening your mouth just enough that you can catch the tip of his thumb with your teeth. Finding yourself suddenly pressed against the movie shelf should have been a bit disconcerting, but the way his mouth is slanting over yours as though he’s trying to crawl inside you. He can’t seem to figure out if he wants to wrap his arms around you and hold you close enough that you feel your ribs protesting or run his hands down your back to your thighs as though touching you is a life or death decision.

Just as quickly he’s slipped out of your reach, your arms sliding off his shoulders, you don’t even remember doing so. It must have been a instinctual thing, trying to find something to hold on to, to steady yourself beneath the onslaught. You can’t help but feel a little satisfied that he’s breathing just as hard as you are, his lips glossy and flushed from the kiss. The look in his eyes and on his face are making it harder to keep your legs beneath you. There’s no gentleness in his eyes now, those soft as smoke irises are burning holes into you, leaving trails of fire as they move slowly down to where the shirt is gaping open. The possessive sound that echoes in his chest, you’d swear it was a growl, when he realizes it’s his shirt almost finishes you off.

Your hand lifts slowly as you lean forward to tangle your fingers in his shirt, the backs of them warming from the heat that’s pouring off him in waves. Not once in your life have you ever swooned or fainted, as a matter of fact you’ve mocked the media that portrayed something so foolish, but when his fingers curl around your wrist to yank you forward you start to wonder if maybe there isn’t a bit of truth to it. There’s a hint of uncertainty in his eyes now, just beneath the lust blown pupils, a question unasked on the panted breath that’s ghosting over your lips. Your arms slide around his shoulders, your hips rolling against his once in answer, a soft please that is more sigh than word. 

All he needed, that hungry kiss is happening again, your legs going weak at the knees when his mouth forces yours open. He nips your lower lip sharply, his tongue right behind laving the hurt away before slipping inside your mouth to flick against yours. You barely notice when you begin to slide down his chest, your legs have given up the ghost, it’s not until his hands lift you by cupping your thighs you realize how close you were to hitting the ground. They’re gentle as they guide your legs around his waist, bruising as they slide up your thighs to grip your hips. It’s fire and ice, his kiss and hands bringing you to a burning point you’re not sure you can breath around, the chill of the air against your heated flesh as his palms glide up your back raising your shirt. 

You can’t help laughing when the exuberance you’re both showing causes him to fall backwards, stumbling to land hard onto the couch. You’re trying to get your legs loose, his lower back pressing against your ankles and bending them uncomfortably. He doesn’t seem to notice the way your heels are digging into the muscles, he didn’t even pause in kissing you as he fell. Now though, his fingers are attempting to fumble with the buttons before ripping the shirt open, his lips trailing over your cheeks to your throat, your throat to your collarbone. Fingertips trace a line down your stomach before moving around and up to unclasp your bra, his teeth lightly grazing the tops of your breast as he growls unable to get it undone. 

Laughing was the last thing you had expected, but it’s bubbling up out of your throat again as you move to help him, his dry palms skimming your ribs as he moves to push the cups of your bra upwards before you’ve even had a chance to undo the other hook. A low whine in your throat, your hips grinding down against the hard length of him you can feel even through the layers of fabric between you. He swallows the sound, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as he cups the underside of your breasts to lightly brush his thumbs across the nipples, pinching and tugging lightly as he slumps lower on the couch to lift his hips into your grinding. The needy noise that escapes you when his mouth breaks from yours goes almost unnoticed. His lips are trailing over your cheek to tug on your earlobe, a low rumble that sends flickers of lightning through you as he kisses a path down your throat. His hand sliding down your ribs to rest on your thigh, thumb brushing along the inside of it as he scrapes his teeth along your collarbone. You almost fall off his lap when he catches your nipple with his teeth, rolling it, flicking his tongue against it as his thumb presses against your clit. A choked sound, a scream unable to break loose of your tight throat when he begins to grind the tip inwards.

Your shaking now, the orgasm that’s building is stronger than it has any right to be considering you two were mostly just making out. There’s no telling that to your body, the ache building between your legs drags a soft sound from you, his tongue trailing up your chest to the pulse in your neck that’s beating frantically against the skin. When his teeth clamp over it you do scream, the sound cracking as you come, his hands almost brutal, just this side of painful as he drags you over the edge. Limp, there’s no other word for it, even your bones have lost the ability to stay rigid. Collapsing on his chest, the steady rise and fall of it, the harsh breathing in your ear, sends shivers through you.

“Good, yeah?” his fingers are trailing up and down your back, lightly tracing swirls that you can’t get your mind to focus on onto your skin. “I’ll give you a minute to recover, just one.”

“I don’t-” an after shock brings a gasp from your throat, you belatedly realize he has a hand on your hip slowly grinding you against him, your oversensitive groin flaring making you whimper.

“Don’t do that darling, don’t make that noise…”

“I’m fine,” a lie, your voice is hoarse, your hands and arms shaky as you try to push yourself off his chest. Failing that you lazily press kisses against his throat, brushing the skin you can reach through the open collar of his shirt.

“I’m sure you are,” he murmurs nudging your temple with his chin to kiss you slowly.

Maybe you were lying, your body feels like a herd of horses rampaged through it, but you’ll be damned if you miss out on feeling his skin against yours.

“I take it by that look you’re ready for round two?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content warning

You still feel boneless, your skin tingling as though there’s a lightning storm dancing along it. Lazy kisses are brushing along your temple. There’s a distinct memory of a soft teasing threat whispered huskily into your ear but he doesn’t seem to be cashing in. Given the circumstances you’d expected him to throw you onto the vacant couch cushions and tear your clothing from you. You’re breathing is uneven just at the thought but he’s gentle as he rolls you onto your back beside him, carefully sliding between your legs.

You’re not entirely sure this seduction thing is going the way its supposed to. As a matter of fact you are positive the idea backfired when he leans down to kiss you, your hands cupping the back of his skull as the kiss escalates from chaste to down right hungry. Arching your body you’re dimly surprised by how smoothly your body rolls to follow his hands. A soft needy sound escapes you when his hands slide down the back of your sweats to grind his hips into yours.

Squirming to try and shrug off your shirt you only wind up getting your arms tangled in the well worn fabric. Taking advantage of your arms constriction he breaks the kiss to kiss and nuzzle down the front of your body. You hips lift up off the couch when his tongue dips beneath your waistband, his hands tugging impatiently on your sweats until they are stretched across your knees. When his mouth curls into a grin, the curve of it making your stomach clench in trepidation, you open your mouth to tell him to stop teasing only to have the words die in your throat as his tongue passes slowly over your crotch.

Unintelligible pleas fall from your lips as he alternates between thrusting in with his tongue, curling it to drag out slowly, catching your clit with his teeth to toy with it lightly before sucking. He takes you all the way to your peak before shifting, his arms caging you, before thrusting inside you with no more warning than a dark smirk. You scream his name as your fingers frantically claw at his back, his hands on your thighs squeezing until you’re sure you can feel every whorl of his fingerprints. Every deep thrust keeps your orgasm rolling through you until you’re sure that your heart is going to stop. Distantly you hear a groan as he wraps an arm around you to pull you to his chest, his lips skimming your throat, your shoulder, his harsh breathing filling your ear.

The dragged out thrusts are shorter, his hips slamming into yours, an orgasm starting just as the other finally ends. Choked sobs are ripping themselves from your chest, you’re sore before he’s even finished but you lock your legs around his waist, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, yanking at it until you finally feel skin beneath your fingertips. Your nails rake along his back drawing a low groan from him, his spine arching, muscles shifting.

“Yes you can, darling.”

The words barely penetrate the hazy set your mind is in, realizing that the desperate sobs you’ve been making had formed the words ‘I can’t, I can’t’ over and over. Lifting his head from your shoulder he stares down at you, his eyes dark and heavy lidded. You can’t breathe, the orgasm stealing the air from your lungs. The only thing keeping your head from falling back is the firm grasp he has on the back of your head, his fingers entangled in your hair. The snarled ‘No’ keeps your eyes open and locked on his, the soft cries you’d been making grow louder rising until they’re almost screams. The last thrust feels as though he’s trying to shove through you.

Hot, you can feel it spilling into you though you would swear that you’ve died beneath him, so much sensation rolling through you that your mind has given up trying to process it all. His flushed sweat slick cheek scrapes along yours, his lips brushing your throat. You can feel the way his arms are shaking to keep from collapsing on top of you. It takes two tries to drape your arms over his shoulders but one kitten weak tug is all it takes to have his weight settle on you. The feel of him softening is unpleasant, you’re loathe to lose the sensation of him filling you, the firm length that has left you unable to do more than attempt to even remember your name. You’re too busy trying to get your tired body to shift to accommodate the bulk of him, the muscled form surrounding you, he makes you feel so small…

“Hm?” you blink surprised at the husky purr that one sound carried, still you have a vague idea he’d said something and you missed it.

“Move. In a moment. Promise.”

Even though you know later your body will complain you somehow find the strength to half wrap around him with a soft sound of disapproval. The deep satisfied chuckle sends shivers down your spine, goosebumps along your skin as it vibrates out of his chest.

“Yes. I feel like I’m crushing you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t care,” you can feel his lips curl into a smile against your collarbone at your petulant tone. You really don’t want him to move, even though after shocks are rolling through you, every inch of you sensitive to the point of pain, you don’t want to loose feel of him pressed so tight against you.

“Woman…” he growls playfully, nipping your shoulder before rolling so you’re draped across his chest. A weak chuckle escapes you when he almost sends the both of you to the floor. Your reaction is slow, but he settles back into the couch letting out a low groan when one of your thighs winds up settling between his, pressing against him.

“Are you trying to do me in?” it takes a bit of maneuvering but he finally gets your legs on either side of his thighs. It briefly flashes across your mind to feel a bit bad about having to make him move you about like a rag doll but it passes as he combs his fingers through your hair.

“Mmm, Maybe?” The drowsy reply seems to amuse him, the hand that had been toying with your hair moving to stroke along the skin of your back. He’s going to make you fall asleep at this rate and you’re not sure you could fight it.

“Well you’re doing a damned good job of it.” he mutters shifting on the couch so your head is resting over his heart. “Go to sleep, I need it after your attempt. I must be getting old.”

“Pfft.”

“Sleep!”

“I don’t wa-“

You’re asleep before you can finish the sentence, the steady percussion of his heart mixed with the contented hum rumbling from his chest lulling you to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When you wake up your first thought is that your body is one massive throbbing ache, it’s not until you shift to try and relieve a bit of it that you realize you’re laying on top of someone. Someone who is fully clothed. Eyes snapping open you freeze, the sudden stillness causing havoc with your muscles that are still trembling. It takes you a moment to remember the night before, yes that is daylight streaming through the blinds on your window, and yes you are naked except for your bra which is hanging from your shoulder, only one leg still in your sweats. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt as you remember last night, your body giving a satisfied throb that makes you gasp in surprise at the strength of it. 

“Shh, love.” the husky murmur does nothing to still your racing heart, things tightening low in your belly that are still aching. His hand slides carelessly along your back, the gesture soothing and much more intimate that you’re ready for. 

Intimate. How could you get any more intimate than what had happened last night? Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you slowly slide down to kneel between his knees, your eyes locking on his face when you realize the fly of his pants is still open. Flashes keep hitting you, each one accompanied by a phantom sensation of his hands, mouth, body. Jesus… 

”You alright?” 

Your face flushes a deep red when you realize he’s woken up, his brow furrowing, a hand lifting to rest against something that’s no longer there. The uncertainty in the motion leaves you puzzled until you realize the movement would have made perfect sense if you’d still been laying on his chest.  

“Fine.” your eyes lower only to dart to the side. You shouldn’t be feeling this wave after wave of self consciousness that makes you feel like you’re drowning in it. 

“Okay…” the word is much longer than it needs to be, his uncertainty slapping you in the face. “Here, just.” 

Pulling his shirt over his head he hands it to you, his light eyes trying to catch yours as you yank the shirt over your head. His mouth opens  only to close, the warm sleepy look on his face fading to one of concern. You’re still not sure how exactly you’re going to pull your pants on when you’re legs are refusing to work. Vaguely you hear him mutter something about using the bathroom before he slides off the couch, using his curled posture to tuck himself into his pants. 

You sit there, staring at where he’d been, confused, lost trying to piece together what’s wrong with you. Since standing is still not an option you lay back on the couch and gingerly pull on your sweats. It’s how he finds you when he comes back, silent in the entryway to the living room. He stares at you for a moment before moving to the couch, sliding an arm beneath your shoulders to lift you up to sit there. For a moment you’re stiff, before finally relaxing turning your head towards his stomach without a word. 

”-… Alright, what is it? Something’s wrong and it can’t be fixed if you don’t spill.” 

The words are gentle, the tone soothing, but still you can’t help going rigid as you keep your eyes closed trying to regain that comfort you’ve had around him since that first date. He’s silent for a moment, an arm along the back of the couch, the other resting on the arm before sighing. 

“Was it last night? I wouldn’t have-“ 

“No.” 

“…. Were you expecting me to be gone when you woke up?” 

You find that is exactly what is wrong with you. The idea that he stayed is novel, the fact that his arms had been draped over you even more so. It’s not that you’ve never been in a relationship, sure there had been nights of passion but in the morning you’d always woken up alone in your bed. To have him still there, still holding you close and attempting to soothe you in his sleep has you a bit freaked out. Your silence is answer enough. 

“Ah, well.” his tone is thoughtful, his fingers slowly combing through your hair in an absent way that despite your nerves makes you relax. 

Your arms move to wrap around his waist, cheek settling on his stomach. It seems so silly now but waking up to his chest rising and falling steadily beneath your cheek had been such an alien sensation it had sent you spiraling into confusion. You feel the sigh before you hear it, his hands moving to pull you into his lap. 

“Next time tell me? I’ll tuck you in and be on my way. I happen to enjoy a bit of after cuddle, that’s all.” 

You hate the tone he’s trying to hide beneath the playful one. Hate it because you caused it and he’d done nothing wrong, nothing at all. You drape your arms over his shoulders and bury your face against his throat. Everything about him is steady, the pulse that’s pulsing against your cheek, the breath that’s breezing across the nape of your neck, the hand that’s slowly running up and down your spine. He’s a rock and you feel like a storm that ebbs and rages unpredictably. 

You don’t remember dozing off, but apparently you did because Eames is leaned back, texting around you and frowning at his phone. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Hmm? Yeah, yeah it’s fine.” a soft kiss brushes your temple but it’s the distracted tone that has you sitting up, moving to slide off his lap. His arm tightens around your waist until he after he finishes the text. “I may have exaggerated…” 

“How so?” it’s hard to keep the thickness in your throat out of your words. Whatever had come through his phone has him distracted and he doesn’t even seem to notice you’re more than just curious. 

“I’ve got to go out of town for a few days.” He’s still frowning at his phone, his lips resting just under your hairline as he talks, “Just a bit of business is all, I’ll be back before you can miss me. Promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

He’s wrong, it only takes you four days to miss him terribly. Your chest is aching, a deep piercing kind of hurt you wouldn’t have thought to have after only knowing him for a bit over a year. You’ve taken to sleeping on the couch in one of his shirts, the long sleeves forced to dangle over your fingers, the top three buttons undone so it hangs around your upper arms. The couch cushion he’d leaned back against shirtless still holds just a trace of him, the shower gel he uses. You wake up wrapped around it, face pressed into the fabric.  

Your Co workers have noticed, teased you mercilessly at first until you’d snapped at one of them to leave you the hell alone. You’re glad you started taking your lunches in your office because sitting in the normal lunch spots always winds up with everyone whispering about you. The memories of past lunches, with Eames practically holding court, all the laughter, makes missing him even worse as you listlessly eat.  

You can’t help but feel ridiculous for the slump you find yourself in. Two weeks with no word has you constantly bouncing back and forth between knowing he’ll be back soon and positive that he’s found something better. For a few days you’re furious at him, concocting a story in your mind that the text came from some old flame. Some pretty little thing that still makes his blood boil. After all he’s never said he loved you, or even spent the night except for the one time after…  

It’s been over a month, no phone call, no text, no email, when you run into the man who runs the detail shop at the diner. You’re in the middle of slowly letting ketchup drip onto your burger when he pauses near you. You see him out of the corner of your eye, your chin tucked into the palm of your hand. When you don’t acknowledge him he moves on without a word and you barely hold back a sigh of relief.  

You’re frowning down at your phone when the waitress comes by to ask if your charming beau will be joining you soon. It takes a herculean effort not to be snide, it’s not her fault, the last time you’d eaten here had been with Eames. Finally you’re able to tell her he’s out of town, and though your smile is fake, your tone almost manages not to be seeped in misery. Tutting sympathetically she pats your shoulder before shifting her attention to a customer calling for service.  

“Eames will be back soon.”  

You jump, lifting your startled eyes to see the man standing by your booth again. The sharply tailored grey suit catches your eye first but it’s the bland expression of comfort on his face that hooks you. It’s not him, so much as the familiarity you see in his eyes as his mouth curls into a soft smile. The silence in the diner is deafening, the staring making your stomach knot and twist.  

“Probably in a couple days or so.” There’s something reassuring about his unruffled demeanor, as though the stares don’t bother him in the slightest. It’s a lie of course, you can see the tension in his shoulders. It’s the lie that kicks your own anxiety up a notch, fighting against the urge to slide father into the booth  

 

“I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to?” There’s a hitch at the end of the query, half hopeful for an answer, half your rising anxiety over everyone’s staring. Why wouldn’t they stop?!  

“Just a bit of business.” He shrugs carelessly, one hand tucking into his pocket. When it emerges he’s holding something small and red. You’re not sure but you’d swear it was a die.  

Slowly but surely his calm demeanor takes its effect on you, the uneven beating of your heart steadying as even the staring crowd start going back to their meals. The low murmur of conversation filling the diner is soothing after the emptiness of sound. The half smile on his lips is charming and you finally think to offer him a seat across the table from you. As he slides in you glance at your phone, fingers moving toward it before hesitating and passing it instead grabbing the salt shaker. Rolling it in your hand for a moment, you stare at it before lightly sprinkling your fries.  

At this point you’re wary of eating them, its the fifth or sixth time you’ve done that. The man, Arthur your mind helpfully chirps at last, glances at the fries with mild interest in his eyes. Silently you push the plate towards him, watching him intently as the long pale fingers lift one from the pile. The grimace he makes has you laughing for the first time in a month, the happy sound feeling both familiar and strange at the same time. The reproachful look he sends you almost brings you to tears though the expression stirs a memory you can’t quite grasp. 

“Those are terrible.” Taking your water glass he sips slowly eyeing you over the rim. Everything he does is like that, as if he’s taken a whole day to plan each move and then executes it precisely. Arthur was always like that.  

That thought pulls you up short, the smile on your lips fading, the crowd around you falling silent. There’s a flash of something behind his eyes, the sculpted eyebrows coming down slowly. You feel as though you’ve done something interesting though you can’t figure out what. He gestures for your plate, taking it before you figure out what he means, and carrying it towards the kitchen. You can just hear his cool, measured voice asking them to remake the order over the hush. The almost memory fades like smoke and you send him a genuine smile as he walks back towards you with the order. Your gaze slips toward your phone again, your fingers trailing over the screen. It lights up suddenly and for a moment you think it’s him but it turns out to just be a notification the battery is low.  

Arthur’s mouth opens only to close when his phone suddenly begins playing a tune you don’t recognize but feel as though you should. An apologetic expression as he excuses himself to take the call. You watch his slim form weave through the tables and out the door, unable to stop yourself from comparing him to Eames and suffering a pang of missing him.  

That song is so familiar, the melody twining through your mind making your heart race though you don’t know why. Your fingers begin slowly tapping the table, the notes expressed on the invisible piano keys beneath them. Humming the refrain over again you notice that the red die is sitting on the table across from you. The notes still rising from your throat you reach out to pick it up, even as a distant part of you cautions against it. Warm fingers wrap around your wrist just as your fingertips brush the cool hard plastic.

“Now, now, darling. You shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours.”


	6. Chapter 6

Even you’re surprised by how quickly you’re out of the booth and flinging yourself at him. He let’s out a soft oof as you crash into him, your arms constricting around his neck, your cheek resting on his shoulder. Your face is pressed against his throat, the breath you take shudders though it feels like the first real one you’ve taken in ages. His hands run the length of your back before wrapping his arms around you, squeezing you so tightly you gasp as it chases the air from your lungs. 

“So you did miss me then?” His voice is soft, teasing, as he brushes kisses along the side of your face. “Come now, surely you enjoyed a bit of you time.” 

“I hated it.” The petulant outburst has him chuckling as he lifts you, crushing you against his chest, a loud smacking kiss by your ear. “I shouldn’t be feeling so smug, eh?” 

“No, you shouldn’t.” 

There’s a sharpness to your tone, an edge to it, that makes him pull back to look at you. The warm smile on his face slips away, a shadow passing over his expression. He seems to realize how serious you are because he backs towards the table behind him to kick out a chair. Falling onto it he takes you with him, pulling your legs to straddle his lap, hands resting on your waist as his thumbs lightly stroke through your shirt. He waits until you pull back, a half smile quirking his lips as he lifts a hand to cover your mouth sensing an apology coming. 

“It took far longer than I wanted to get done, but I wouldn’t have left at all if it wasn’t important.” His eyes search yours. He’s silent as your hands slide down to rest on his chest, fingers plucking at one of the buttons.

It would seem he finds what he’s looking for because he pulls you close again resting his cheek against your temple. You can’t quite catch what he says next, you’re too busy savoring his Cologne in your nose, the feel of his sides lifting and falling beneath your hands as you hug him. It was something about hating seeing you like this, but he’s never been gone like this before, you’ve never been clingy like this after a business conference that lasted a week. Soft footsteps interrupt your musings, Arthur’s name a quiet rumble of greeting in Eames’ chest. You suddenly feel ridiculous. When you turn your head slightly you see the look Arthur is giving you both. 

No, you decide as you make a move to climb off of Eames’ lap, stymied when his arms don’t budge, it’s just Eames that look is for. It takes you a moment to puzzle it out but you figure out why it’s so odd a look. It’s full of pity and reprimand in equal measure. 

“Perhaps your home coming would be better celebrated at home.” Though his voice is quiet, the chiding tone is clear as is the silent question apparently meant for Eames alone. 

“Perhaps.” The word is drawled, careless almost except for the chill behind it. You can see the calm expression tighten in anger, a subtle thing but there all the same. 

“Eames-” 

“Do you want your food to go?” His tone is warm as he cuts Arthur off, shifting his attention to you. “Your choice, darling. Personally I missed eating here.” 

The tension between them spikes and you feel your stomach clench killing your appetite. A man leaving shoulders past Arthur rudely, turning to give him a dirty look before yanking open the door to leave. Arthur doesn’t even look, his gaze locked on Eames, his expression blank. 

“Hmm, to go it is then,” he presses his lips to your temple though his eyes are on Arthur as his thumb slowly strokes your lower back. His voice changes to a lazy insulting drawl as he addresses Arthur. “Be a dear and ask the cooks to pack up her food to go.” 

Arthur’s expression doesn’t change but you can see the way his whole body tenses as if restraining himself from striking Eames. After a moment he gives a curt nod, his lips thin as though he doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

“That was mean.” You hiss, pulling back to glare at him. One of the other customers slams their glass down next to their plate, the sound echoing in the too quiet diner. 

“Nonsense, he’s got a stick up his arse that keeps his spine straight.” Smiling he gives you a quick peck on the lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“You and Arthur didn’t fight like this, why are you antagonizing him?” 

He’s quiet as he stares at you, his hand stilling on your back where he’d been trailing his fingertips against your skin. His mouth opens then closes before smiling though it seems a bit forced, his eyes intent on yours. 

“You’re right, I’m being crass aren’t I?” There’s something odd about his tone, the way he’s staring at you is starting to make you uncomfortable. “Apologize then, yeah?” 

Something’s wrong, but before you can decide to press Arthur is back, not only with a box for your food but another closed container. With an absent kiss Eames let’s you off his lap, grabbing Arthur’s elbow and dragging him out whispering harshly as they go after promising to meet you back at your apartment. Dazed you pack your food and pay with a tip. You’re not sure what’s going on but there’s a chill in your blood that makes you leery to find out.


	7. Chapter 7

Your drive home is over before you realize it, automatically parking your car in your spot and turning it off. You’ve never been a coward, as a matter of fact some had called you brazen. It’s just been recently, a bad experience that’s faded to a hazy memory, that you find yourself skittish in large crowds. It’s as though the moment you find yourself surrounded your common sense abandons you and all you can think of is escaping. You can’t remember why but your head pulses and throbs when you prod at the murky spot in your memory. 

Carrying your take out up the stairs, you thumb through your keys until you find the one for your apartment. It’s not until you’re unlocking an already unlocked door that you remember what had happened at the diner. Well remembering is a loose term. You remember talking with Arthur, Eames showing up out of no where… After that it gets a bit fuzzy. Eames and Arthur had been fighting? No, not quite, more like arguing in code, one you’d been unable to unravel. And then you’d said something about Arthur? It had happened less than twenty minutes ago and you can’t remember. 

Walking into the apartment you’re half expecting them to be at each other’s throats. Instead Arthur is sitting on a chair in the kitchen, both feet tucked behind the legs, balancing on the back two, fingers threaded across his stomach. Eames is sprawled out on the couch, one leg going over the edge, an arm dangling to the floor. The scene is so familiar but something is missing. You can just see the fuzzy outline of a different room, a model on a table, in your head before it fades. You lift your fingers to your temple you try to ease the head ache that’s building. Tilting his head back Eames holds out his hand to you and you take it, the styrofoam container thudding onto the coffee table. 

He sits up long enough for you to sit before sprawling across your lap. Absently you play with his hair only to be stopped by him grabbing your wrist to kiss your fingertips. The smile that curls your lips dies as you lift you’re gaze to see Arthur. A moment ago you’d have sworn he was lost in his thoughts but now he’s staring at you intently. Your pulse must have quickened because Eames rolls his eyes to look at you before turning his head to look at him. 

“Don’t.” 

You’re not sure what he means by that but Arthur raises an eyebrow at him before looking to you again. You can’t help shifting your gaze, dropping it instead to where Eames’ fingers are tightening. Tugging, you try to get loose from the now painful hold. 

“Aren’t you curious? You seemed like it on the drive here.” 

“Drop it.” The words are a low growl as he sits up to glare. 

“-….” For a moment you watch the thoughts fly behind Arthur’s eyes before he shrugs the intense look fading to pleasant disinterest. “Fine.” 

Reaching out for your food Eames pushes it towards you, popping the lid with his thumb. You barely glance at the food, instead glancing back and forth between them. Something is going on, going by Eames’ glower it’s but something amusing at all. His shoulders are tight, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. You grab a fry from the box only to have Eames snatch the container away from you to head into the kitchen. The unmistakable sound of the oven door opening and being slammed shut reaches you, your head whirling about to stare in that direction. 

“It’s cold.” 

A soft snort of amusement has you turning to look at Arthur. Your eyes narrow at him thoughtfully, the chill that cooled your blood warming as you become annoyed. 

“What is going on with you two? What aren’t you telling me?” 

Arthur’s mouth opens only to have Eames snarl wordlessly. Alright, no, enough is the fuck enough. Pushing yourself off of the couch, you step around it and walk towards Eames your hands clenched at your sides. Managing, that’s what they’re doing right now and you won’t have it. Gone for over a month doing God knows what, and now somethings up and he wants to keep it a secret. To hell with that! 

“What. is. it.” The words are dragged from between clenched teeth, your jaw aches from the strain to keep from screaming. 

“How long have you known Eames?” The sudden question throws you off balance. 

Scowling you glance over your shoulder at him, what does that have to do with anything? Crossing your arms under your chest you raise an eyebrow your voice low. 

“A little over a year. So? What does that have to do with what you two are trying to keep from me?” 

“Are you sure?” There’s something in his voice, that intense look is back in his eyes as he stares at you. “Let’s say from your first date at the bistro to now.” 

“Yeah, I assumed that’s what you meant.” Your tone is snide now, turning to face him, shrugging off the hand that had started playing with the nape of your neck. “Do you want specifics? Three hundred seventy-six days. Got the time? I can get more specific.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course, he was waiting for me downstairs at seven forty-six.” 

“I think you misunderstood, I meant-” 

“Goddammit, Arthur, I said ‘Don’t.’ How hard is that to understand?!” 

The rest of his rant is lost on you as you stare at the slim man still balanced on the chair. His dark eyes are boring into yours, the light throbbing behind your eyes is getting worse. Rubbing the bridge of your nose you twist away from the hand you feel sliding over your hip before Eames can pull you close. 

“Feels like you’ve known him forever, right?” Arthur’s voice is low, you can barely hear it over Eames’ ranting. “He’s your rock, the thing that keeps you steady? You all but fell apart when he was gone a month. And that doesn’t seem odd after only a year?” 

“No, I l-” you swallow thickly. Neither of you have said it, not while the other was awake at least. 

“Fine, what’s you’re favorite holiday?” 

None of this is helping with your head ache, it’s building it to a full blown migraine. The sudden topic switch has you taking a half step back towards Eames, his arms hesitantly wrapping around your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You flick your eyes towards Eames’ face but he’s too focused on glaring at Arthur. 

“Let’s try an easier one,” his chair falls with a soft thud, standing from the chair in a smooth motion. Putting his hand into a pocket, pulling it out a moment later with his fingers curled tightly, he unfurls his fingers to show a red die sitting on his palm. “What’s this?” 

“Your totem.” The words are out of your mouth before you take a moment to think, the seemingly obvious answer becomes confusing the next breath. The pain in your head spikes, your vision going grey around the edges. 

“What is it for?” the die is filling your vision now, the now piercing migraine drawing a small whine from your lips. 

“Stop it.” Eames voice is quiet in your ear, his arms squeezing to the point that what little breath you have is forced out. “Arthur… Just stop, mate.” 

“What’s it for?” 

Mutely you shake your head, your eyes widening. Your hands lay on Eames’ forearms, fingers curling to dig your nails in, his lips lightly grazing the back of your neck. 

“Tell me what it’s for.”


	8. Chapter 8

Even closing your eyes you can still see it, your head aching as it holds back a tide of murky memories. They snap open when a splash of dark crimson splashes across your mind’s eye. Whatever that was you don’t want to see it, you can’t bear to remember that specific moment and it seems to be the only one willing to surface. Turning you bury your face in Eames’ chest your fingers tangling in the fabric. 

“Arthur, I’ll shoot you. I mean it.” 

His body is trembling, his rage making you squeeze your eyes shut, Arthur’s voice is distant in your ears. Your eyes fly open when the crimson stained memory tries to surface again. It takes a few moments to realize that Eames is trying to pull your hands away from your ears. His hands cup your face as he continues talking though you can’t hear what he’s saying. The hiss of the water facet reaches you only when Eames turns to shout at Arthur to hurry up. 

“You bastard, look what you’ve done…” Snatching the glass from Arthur, half the water spilling over the rim to soak his hand and wrist he gently presses it to your mouth. “Take a sip, just a couple of sips, baby.” 

“Eames, I-” Arthur starts to speak but Eames’ voice is cold as he interrupts. 

“If you want to keep your teeth in your mouth and not scattered on the floor I suggest you stop talking.” 

It’s ridiculously hard to unlock your jaw, taking a small sip before lifting shaking hands to take the glass. He fights you at first before giving in, letting out a half frustrated, half amused grunt, as he brushes your hair away from your forehead. Long, pale fingers enter your line of sight and you recoil, the glass almost falling from your suddenly nerveless fingers. 

“Hush, love.” Your eyes fly to Eames’ face, you can feel you breath coming too quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. He takes your hand, slowly working it open to place two small white pills on your palm. You’ve gotten to the point that this is just all too surreal, you stare down at the medication unable to even begin to be suspicious, more staring at them because they’re there. 

“Just take them, they’ll help you sleep.” Beneath the soothing tone there’s a hint of something you can’t quite place. Dutifully you take them, your eyes locked on his face even as he presses a kiss to your forehead. 

It takes the pills over an hour to take affect, having to fight against the rising panic and anxiety even being curled in Eames’ lap can’t fix. You hear something crack, a loud sound eerily similar to gun fire, it makes you curl tighter, fingers digging into Eames’ chest through his shirt. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, but something drags you into consciousness. The medication has left you groggy, your head ache a not so fond memory as you burrow deeper beneath the coverlet. A raised voice clues you in to what woke you though moving to get out of bed is out of the question. 

Even with how well you know his voice it takes a moment for you to recognize it. You’ve never heard him like this, his husky voice harsh as he’s trying not to shout. Blearily you try to focus on the door from the bed, noticing that it’s cracked, light from the living room trickling through. 

“I don’t care, Arthur! I’ve got nothing but time here!” The normal laziness of his accent is gone, it’s ragged and sharp. “You know as well as I do time doesn’t pass the same way here. It doesn’t matter!” 

Arthur’s voice is quiet in comparison, but just as insistent. “It does matter. You can’t keep doing this. What happens when you start to believe this is real? It’s not good for you and it’s certainly not good for her! Have you noticed how fragile she’s gotten?” 

You force yourself to untangle from the coverlet and sheet, sitting up slowly lifting a hand to press against your forehead as a dizzy spell hits you. Fragile? Seriously? What the hell are they talking about? 

“I know, I know…” Eames is quiet for a moment, the unmistakable scratch of a match being lit, the smell of sulfur followed by the musky scent of a cigar. His voice is almost too low for you to hear when he continues “It’s worse, last time wasn’t near as bad. But don’t they say it has to be at its worst before it gets better?” 

“You butchered that quote and you know it.” Arthur’s voice is soft, a hint of pity behind the words. “Her subconscious is lashing out at the smallest things. I was standing near her only for a moment and I thought the old lady at the table next to her was going to stab me with her soup spoon… Eames you need to stop trying.” 

“I can’t…” The pain in his voice helps chase away a bit of the grogginess holding you to the bed. Sliding off the mattress you move slowly towards the door, still almost falling flat on your face twice despite the geriatric pace. 

“You have to, you can’t fix this.” You can just see the two of them sitting on the couch over the back of it, Eames’ hunched posture making your heart clench. Over his shoulder you can see an ashtray filled with half smoked thin cigars, some of them still smoldering. You watch as you lean against door jamb, even that short trip has your legs trembling beneath you.

“I’ll be damned if I can’t! You tell that fucking chemist to keep working. If I wake up and find him slacking I’ll kill him, understand? Kill him slowly in dreams that well make the Russians seem like amateurs and then drag him kicking and screaming to reality to kill him for real.” 

You feel a shiver roll down your spine, the conversation might as well be in a foreign tongue, one you feel you used to speak but are now too rusty to even attempt. Eames isn’t like this, he isn’t so cold, so hard and unforgiving. A distant part of your mind, the place that’s drenched in murky memory laughs at you, mocks your naivete. 

“She’s like this because of me, Arthur. It kills me when she looks at me like she doesn’t know me, or watches me like every little quirk of mine is brand new to her. It was fine the first time but now… I want her back No, I need her back.” 

The headache’s trying to rise again, you can feel it pressing against the back of your eyes. That memory you’ve been running from is right behind it, mercilessly pressing forward. Dreams, Chemist. It echoes through your mind but you can’t understand why Eames would use them the way he had. Forger, Extractor, lifting your hands you press your palms against your temples. 

Flashes of impossible things are battering your mind. A city made of spiraling glass, the sidewalks paved with what feels like velvet. A small house perched precariously on a cliff over an ocean that’s the colour of Eames’ eyes. A girl not much younger than you laughing and pulling you behind her through each impossible thing, her sable hair whipping around in the wind as you stand in the middle of an intersection as cars drive around you, above you. 

Your wonder turns to confusion as the memories shift. Eames smiling, his fingers trailing over your cheeks but the reflection in his eyes isn’t yours. It’s someone else. Whispering his name only to have a stranger turn to face you, the features slowly shifting until it’s him laughing, wrapping his arms around you and spinning the two of you until you’re both breathless. 

Following Arthur through a building. Walking into a room where you comfort a terrified man, soothing him, asking him to give you the code to his phone. Seducing some man, getting escorted to his room to have him help you crack open a safe. 

“Eames…” The word is too soft for even you to hear but he whirls around, eyes going wide as he vaults over the sofa. 

“What’s wrong? Darling you need to tell me what’s wrong.” His hands catch you as your legs give out. Oh God, your head feels like it’s splitting. “Arthur!” 

That loud crack happens again, and again, your eyes opening to stare at the jigsaw of plaster your ceiling has become. Your hand lifts of it’s own accord, the movement slow as though you’re trying to move it through molasses. A smile curls your lips, an innocent thing as your gaze lowers to Eames’ panicked one. 

“Do you remember when Ariadne made a whole city out of puzzle pieces?” your voice is too husky, it doesn’t sound like you at all, the fingers you use to stroke Eames’ face aren’t the right shape. And who the fuck is Ariadne? “We built a house piece by piece, just like those 3D puzzles you buy at hobby shops.” 

You’re smiling but he’s not. His eyes are dark with worry, his cheeks drawn and pale. You look down, your fingers are damp, sticky. There’s a hole in his chest, broad as your palm. Screaming you close your eyes, hands covering them as you scream faster than you can draw breath.


	9. Chapter 9

New rule. Whatever it was that came in last night and round house kicked you upside the head is never allowed back. Ever! Moving your hands to cradle your head, that feels four sizes too large, you try to remember last night. All you seem to get is hazy recollection, someone hurt, someone important. Thinking hurts, breathing hurts, doing absolutely nothing hurts. The moan you make is like gravel, your throat raw and aching. Hands sliding down to trail your fingers over the skin, as though you could feel the raw muscles, the way you lightly caress a bruise to ascertain how bad it is. 

Were you drinking last night? That would also explain the bitter taste in your mouth but the explanation is missing that ring of truth you were hoping for. What else could it be though? You have snippets of conversation, brief flashes of memory- memory… Eames’ face pale, the eyes empty of that playful gleam no one else understands, the ragged hole in his chest soaking your shirt and slacks. 

You recoil from the nightmarish vision that’s painting itself in your mind. No, not real, it couldn’t be! Rolling away from it, as though you can escape it by shifting where your eyes are staring, you almost jump out of your skin when you encounter a broad chest. Your sudden jerk has his arms wrapping around you, holding you close to his chest, his steady breath ghosting over your hair.

The attempt to say his is name leaves you with nothing but a harsh croak, clearing your throat brings you to tears. You don’t know what you did last night but you’re paying for it now in spades… Shoving at his chest you try to pull loose, squirming to try and break out of the heavy circle his arms have made. His response is a low long suffering groan as he rolls, taking you with him as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, settling his body above yours.

“Ariadne said until afternoon…”

“-….” you stiffen beneath him, the only word you catch at first from the muffled complaint is some other woman’s name. “Who the hell is Ariadne?”

That has his eyes opening, the short thick lashes tickling against your throat. His head lifts slowly, the sleepy expression on his face would be precious if not for the fact that he just said another woman’s name in your ear. Closing his eyes tightly, giving his head a shake, he opens them again and stares down at you almost as though he’s suspicious.

“Ariadne is—” his voice trails off into a yawn, lifting a hand to rub at the sleep in his eyes. “Wait, hold on, you know me at least, yeah?”

“Of course I know-” you stop, letting out a noise of frustration when he grins, turning your face away when he leans down to attempt a kiss.

Glaring up at him from the corner of your eye does nothing to dim the happiness that’s radiating from his face. The sleepy smile he has makes your heart stutter even though you want nothing more than to get an arm loose and punch him until he answers you. His face is nuzzling your throat, his arms slipping around you to hold you tight and you can feel that smile against your skin.

“Don’t care about anything else then.”

Well you definitely do, the name rings a bell, albeit a hollow one tucked far off in the recesses of your mind. Putting your hands on his shoulders you shove at him, hips lifting to try and displace him, but he just laughs and rolls you both again until your laying on top. Your eyes narrow down at him, lips twisting into a scowl even as his smile gets bigger. Sitting up, straddling his stomach, you cross your arms waiting impatiently for him to realize the amount of danger he’s in. He’s slow to catch on but when he does the smile wilts at the edges, his hands slowly sliding up your thighs to your hips and back again.

“But uh… It would seem that it matters to you, eh?”

You’re silent as he sits up, spilling you into his lap, his broad hands resting against your back. A self conscious chuckle escapes his lips, the sound husky with sleep.

“Ariadne is a friend of ou- mine, a good friend, and she wants to meet us later this afternoon.” He’s not telling you everything, though his eyes are meeting yours there’s still a hint of evasion in them that you can’t help feeling hurt over.

“So… One of your old girlfriends wants to meet me?” That sentence was too long, your voice a dry rasp as your throat rebels against this whole talking thing you’re trying to force on it.

“An old what?!” his voice cracks, his eyes going wide in surprise before he falls back to the bed laughing hysterically.

There is absolutely nothing funny about this, you think to yourself as you grab his wrists and pull them away from your hips. It’s not until you’re already half off the bed that he wraps an arm around your waist and drags you back, kissing the back of your neck as he curls around you from behind.

“No, sweetheart, she’s not an ex. I said friend and I meant it.” his teeth catch your ear, tugging on it lightly the laughter still rolling about in his chest. “I’d hate to have you meet an ex of mine, you might kill the poor thing.”

“I may very well kill you,” the words are muttered beneath your breath, your head tilting as his lips and teeth trail down the line of your throat. “What did we drink last night? My throat and head are killing me.”

There’s the slightest of hesitation in his ministrations, his fingers tightening on your waist before you feel a shrug roll his shoulders.

“We didn’t really drink anything, I think you had a nightmare.” his voice is slow, his lips writing the words against your shoulder. “Took me ages to get you back to sleep.”

Nightmare? You can just remember Arthur and Eames talking, something they’d said was so very strange it made no more sense than anything else you’d ever dreamed. Though to be honest if it was a dream, your mind hazily recalling the dream from the night before, it was more strange than ones previously. Chills roll down your spine remembering the vicious way Eames had spoken, the way the ceiling had cracked letting bits of plaster rain down over you both, and the crimson stain that had spread over his chest, the gaping wound.

“Shh, don’t think about it right now, okay?” he pulls you closer, “No point in going so fast when it’s going to hurt, right?”

“Wha- What is that supposed to mean?”

You try to roll over to face him but he buries his face between your shoulder blades shaking his head back and forth slowly. Getting him to answer your question and failing miserably has you disgruntled and surly when he tries to change the subject. Finally he lets you go, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, the perfect picture of dejection.

Secrets… You hate having someone keep them from you. Especially when it’s someone you trust almost as much as, if not more, than you do yourself. Leaving the bedroom door open, you walk across the living room to get to the shower, and the sink where you are in desperate need of the toothbrush that’s waiting on the rim. It’s not until you are stepping into the shower that you feel something digging into the bottom of your foot.

Pressing you hand to the wall for balance you lift it, cupping it in your hand to run your thumb along the white powder and bits that coat it. Your heart stops, comes to a complete halt in your chest before jumping straight into a jack rabbit fast beat. He’d said you dreamt last night… No, your mind mocks you, he said the nightmare made it hard to get you back to sleep. Your fingernails scrape the wall as you try to grip it.

Moving slowly, not entirely sure you want to see if there’s anything to see, you peer out of the bathroom and into the living room Cautiously your eyes lift to the ceiling, scrutinizing every inch of it, but there’s not a crack to be found. Taking a deep breath you let it out, lips curling as you feel foolish for even believing the dream had been real. Only after you’ve slowly began working the shampoo into your hair do you remember the smell of cigar smoke as you walked through the room and on Eames’ breath when he tried to kiss you.


	10. Chapter 10

The water's gone cold, spilling over your shoulders like frigid fingers, caressing the almost numb skin leaving you chasing the sensation against the lack of it. The shiver that rolls up your spine has nothing to do with the frigid water and everything to do with the confusion that's rolling through your mind. Leaning against the shower wall you slide until you're sitting with your knees up, forearms resting on them as the water falls into your open palms. That's exactly how Eames finds you almost an hour later, your teeth chattering, fingernails a light violet.

Without a word he pulls you out of the shower grabbing a small towel to run your skin dry before wrapping you in a larger one. You can hear him murmuring in your ear as he carries you out to the living room, the words hazy and untranslatable in your mind. Falling back onto the couch jostles you but it's a distant sensation you're cold in more ways than one, a chill that goes all the way to the core. Your mind is rebelling against the things you're trying to tell it is true, until finally with a sharp report things you'd forgotten with a will borne of pure determination rise up like smoke obscuring your sight.

“What were you thinking, eh?” his lips burn as they brush your temple. “You going daft on me?”

“The plaster...”

“Hmm? His hands are so warm they hurt as they chafe your arms, his jaw scorching as it passes over your shoulder.

“The ceiling looked like broken glass, the plaster fell like snow.” the monotonous tone to your voice bothers you, feels wrong as it slides of your tongue.

“Ah, you're a poet now?” despite the light tone there's a hint of fear beneath. A dark thread beneath the velvet smooth tone.

“Cities made of glass,” your voice is low, the words coming faster now though the tone doesn't change, his hands gripping your upper arms a distant pain you can't bring yourself to focus on as the memories continue to assault you. “Cars going round and round and round and-”

“Here, now! Stop that!” his voice is harsh as he turns you to face him on his lap, fingertips digging in as he gives you a rough shake.

“My face is all wrong,” the soft childish whine isn't much better, you can feel anger rising against the chill inside you but it doesn't seem strong enough to break you from this cold you're trapped in.

“What are you on about?”

“This,” you lift your hands to run your fingers over your cheeks, across your lips, along the bridge of your nose. “This isn't my face is it? I have so many faces, all of them so beautiful... Did I chose the right face? I don't think I did...”

“No... You have the one and it's perfectly lovely.” He almost sounds insulted as he gives you another shake before grabbing your wrists to pull you close as he finishes the sentence through clenched teeth.

“You do too, my love.” it takes a bit of strain but your fingernails scrape lightly along his jaw, “You are so many people, but I always know you don't I?”

“You used to...” He's quiet after that, his sentence trailing off and leaving you with a stab of guilt that tears into your heart and brings tears to your eyes. Your hands are curled so tightly in your lap that the knuckles are bloodless, your eyes blinking as you see something wrong, or rather something that should be there that's not.

“Where's my necklace?”

“Your what?”

“My necklace,” you feel so strange, almost as though it's not your words, that they belong to someone else. But you can see the intricate knots, the small vial at the base that holds a small jar of crystal fragments.

“In your room I'd expect. Want me to go and grab it?”

“It won't be there, I know it's not. I gave it to you, you have it.”

His eyes widen, the color draining from his face as he licks his lips. His mouth opens but whatever he was going to say stays lodged in his throat. His hand slips from your arn to lightly trace over the lump beneath his shirt.

“You were shot.”

“I got better.” the hushed whisper barely registers, it strikes just hard enough against your mind that your head begins to shake furiously.

“No, you died. I watched you die in the back of Arthur's car...”

Smiling sadly you trail your fingers over his lips, along his chin. He doesn't move, if anything his eyes widen more, a blind sort of panic lurking in their depths as he searches your face. You're not sure what he's looking for but your chest feels odd, almost as though it's hollow. Your eyes burn as you lower them to his chest, fingers plucking at the buttons of his shirt.

“So much blood... I was bathed in it.” you trail off, the memory coming to light out of sync

Arthur's normally calm voice loud and frantic as it echoed through the car. Ariadne's repeated denials as she curled herself tightly into a ball in the front seat her hand tucked into her sleeve as she desperately tried to wipe the blood from her cheek. The blood chilling sound of Eames' breath rattling in his chest as his fingers tangled with yours. The noise, your ears still ringing from the explosion that had blown out the windows, the gunfire that had tore chunks out of the walls around you.

Colour, all the colours, the sky such a cheery blue, winking from behind a sky full of bright clouds so blinding white you'd been glad to have cause to avoid them. The business district the car was careening through full of little shops with garish trinkets for tourists that assaulted your eyes with the tacky flashes of yellows, greens, blues, reds... Red, on the seats, on your hands, staining your clothes... The sarcastic quip he tries to say ends in a coughing fit, his body twisting as he rolls on his side, his face pressing into your stomach.

“You died and I was-” you frown, your eyebrows coming down as you stare at your hands. Though it's utterly ridiculous you can see the dark red blood still staining your fingers, wiping your hands on the towel trying to scrub them clean. “We brought you to the hospital they couldn't let me stay with you.”

“I know.” the words pass you by as your fingers finally pull his shirt open, trailing over the place where the hole had been. Your eyes going unseeing as your fingers trail over the unmarred skin.

All the yelling as you fought the grogginess of waking, the chemist's horrible mixture leaving you light headed and confused as the glass had rained around you. None of the normal, restful sensation that came from waking, an ache in the back of your mind, a tightness in your neck. Eames' arm behind your shoulders, pulling you up towards him, trying to help you find your feet in the chaos. But your body refuses to listen, half languid from the sedatives. The loud cracking sound ringing in your ears, the numbness that spreads across your shoulder turning fire that courses through your nerves with no mercy. The belated realization that something hot has splashed across your face, your vision made more blurry by the vermilion spray that's painting your face.

It won't be til later, while you're strapped to a bed, IVs puncturing your arms, that the bullet that tore through Eames' chest almost ripped your shoulder apart beyond repair. The nurses were polite at first, understanding even as you raged at them to let you loose. Eventually they stopped even showing the polite professional smile that they saved for even the surliest guests. They still offered you pain medication though ti was always chased with sedatives, the moment you didn't hurt you renewed your efforts to try and find Arthur, to make him tell you what was happening, the name of the man you were doing to kill.

“I don't know which is worse.” your eyes fly up to his, forcefully shoved into the present, you're half thankful to be away from the horrid memories that are still playing behind your eyes. “That you think I'm a bloody projection or when you don't remember me at all”


	11. Chapter 11

“Of course you’re a projection, how else could you be here?” the words are muttered under your breath. You’re starting to feel awkward having this conversation dripping wet, in an over sized towel, in your living room. How did you even get into this mess?

Projection or not at the moment none of that matters, not in the slightest. He’s here, your lips curl into a slow smile your palms smoothing over the sparse hair that covers his chest. Leaving you brush your lips against his, surprised to find them unresponsive, thin and unyielding.

“None of that,” he pulls back from you to stare, there’s a flinch around his eyes, an almost accusation hovering behind his eyes that makes you shift uncomfortably.

“Why not?” your tone is belligerent now before softening to a low murmur as you try again for a kiss. “It’s my dream isn’t it? We could be so happy here Eames.”

“But it’s not real!” he curls his fingers around your shoulders pushing you back, his eyes searching yours. “I need you to wake up, love.”

“No!” twisting out of his grip you almost fall to the floor before scrambling out of his lap, the towel coming undone and sliding down your body, your hands clenching the thick cotton and holding it over your racing heart. How could he ask that of you, go back to a world where you’re a pariah in the Dream business? Cobb would be more welcome if anyone could find him…

“If I wake up you’ll be gone again… I don’t want to wake up!”

“You have to you stubborn, mule headed-” his mouth snaps closed, head falling into his hands as he slowly shakes it before dragging his hands over his face fingers resting on his chin. “I didn’t die, it was close… Fourteen hours on a table but I bloody well didn’t die!”

“But in Arthur’s car-” you can still feel the slick sensation of your hands bloody from trying to keep Eames’ life blood inside, the way your back had screamed from shrapnel being pressed further into your flesh by every slam against the car door as Arthur had slid around the corners.

“Yes that,” he waves your words away, the look on his face almost amused. “My little pessimist, you can remember all of the bad but none of the good and it’s killing me, love.”

“You can’t die if you’re already dead.”

“God dammit I didn’t die,” the words are a low growl as he surges to his feet, crowding into your space but not touching you with anything more than the heat coming off him in waves and his breath brushing over your face. “Of all the things to block you- … Look. I got better, did the whole nine yards because something in you snapped and Arthur brow beat me with it until I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I heard you were doing jobs half cocked, no plan, no subtlety just guns blazing and taking the information by force. You wouldn’t even come to see me…”

“There was nothing to see, you-”

“If you say I was dead one more time I swear I’ll strike you.”

“Fine!” you can feel the scowl on your lips, the way your chin lifts in the air. “Regardless this is my dream and I’m not leaving it. I’m happy here, with you. Just stay.”

“Happy? With that shoddy little job, you never go anywhere unless I take you, you’ve built a whole world to live and you don’t even live.”

You mouth falls open, that hurt. So what if you wanted a quiet little job, a humdrum little life after all that you’d gone through? Who was he to judge you about it? You shrug off his hands when they lightly pass over your shoulders. Stepping back you clutch the towel tighter, your eyes slipping from his at the confused hurt in them. Why are you doing this to yourself? Why would you make Eames this way, he wasn’t all sugar and kisses like he’d been for the last year. He was rude, and sharp edged, always ready with a sarcastic quip to cut you down to your knees. And you’d ignored all of that to have him the way he could be on the rare occasion you found time to be alone…

“I’ve messed you up, haven’t I?”

“You takin the piss? I’ve spent how long getting you to fall in love with me all over again only to have you snap and start all over. I’ve lost track, love, I’ve given up trying to keep count, but it’s worth it if you’d only say yes…”

“No, that’s not what I- You what?”

“You think this is the first time we’ve been together like this, here, in this dull little bubble you’ve wrapped around yourself?” the laugh he gives you hurts, digs under your skin like shards of glass and you flinch. “Arthur’s about ready to lock me up and throw away the key, I’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing but be here with you, trying to get you to come home.”

“But this is so much better than home, isn’t it? No jobs to go wrong, no shady chemists to stab you in the back because someone paid them better. It’s better!”

“No it’s not!” his voice is sharp and ragged as he grabs your shoulders and pulls you close, his nose brushing yours. “It’s a lie, you know that, lies are your bloody trade, and you’re willing to give EVERYTHING up to live in one. Where’s your spine?”

“Somewhere in Barcelona.”

“Y- Oh… Oh don’t you dare go and try to-” his lips are harsh on yours, grinding them together with yours until you’re squirming to try and get loose. “You’re coming home, you hear me? Enough of this. I don’t know what kind of misconstrued guilt you’ve been drowning in but I’m sick of it!”

“Eames-”

“No that’s enough, pet. Done, you hear me? You’re waking up this time before you slip under again.” his voice softens, thumbs slowly stroking your shoulders as he chases your gaze which has settled somewhere else, anywhere else other than meeting his. “I love you, and if I have to I’ll do this until we’re both old and grey and you’ve got Alzheimer’s, but you should just come home.”

“You’re not this sweet.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ve messed you up, you would have shot in me in the leg before getting all-” your hand rolls on your wrist between the two of you until you finally settle. “Mushy, you’re too mushy. I know you almost better than you know yourself but I’ve mucked it up.”

“Would you feel better if I shot you?” incredulously he leans back, raising an eyebrow at you, lips twitching with amusement, “If that’s what it takes I’m sure I could, if I’m not half a rotten bastard I don’t know who is…”

“Stop teasing me, I mean it.”

“So do I.”

The gun fire in the small apartment echoes, your ears ringing with it, blinking as plaster powder falls on your eyelashes and cheeks. You flinch away from the warm barrel that moves towards your cheek, the sharp acrid scent making your nose wrinkle.

“That’s not funny.”

His lips thin into a mimicry of a smile, the muzzle sliding down the side of your face to your neck, skimming across your shoulder, down your arm to tap your wrist sharply. A startled yelp escapes you, cradling the aching wrist in your hand as you stare at him half annoyed, half worried about where this is going.

“Where should I shoot you, hmm? How should I convince your delusional mind that I’m not something you made up?”

“Eames, you’re being ridiculous.” even you aren’t convinced at the laughter you throw in his face. “You’re not going to shoot me, you can’t. I made you up and I don’t want you to, not even on a very deep self conscious level, shoot me.”

“Choose.”

“Stop it.”

“Not likely. Do you have any idea how many faces I’ve worn for you, I’m exhausted pet. I’ve been the lovesick boy, the swaggering bastard, the intellectual partner, I’ve done them all for you. And now that you’re asking for specifics, well who am I to argue, yeah?”

“What are y- You’re being ridiculous. This is my dream, not yours, I’ll do whatever I want in it including making you disappear.”

“See that’s what I mean!” the gun barrel taps you on the temple repeatedly as he leans in closer. “You didn’t even notice the shift, when it became my dream instead of yours, ours instead of just the one. You’re losing it, love.”

“That’s not funny, you’re not-”

“Now where’s it going to be? You know the thigh can be a bit messy, but the calf? You’d never wear shorts again, you vain little thing.” the smile on his face makes your stomach twist, his eyes dark. The last time you’d seen him like this he had Forged a truly despicable creature to get closer to the Mark.

“Eames? You’re not serious…”

It takes him a moment of staring at you before his shoulders slump, the gun dangling from his index finger in the trigger guard. Letting out a harsh exhale he runs a hand over his face, a choked sort of noise coming from his throat.

“No I’m not serious but I’m almost desperate enough…”


	12. Chapter 12

It breaks your heart to see the expression on his face, the lost look you'd only ever seen when he was deep in a bottle and missing what had been his life. He'd come from a good home and it had been torn away from him before he'd had the chance to truly appreciate it. You'd met him later in life, when he'd buried all that hurt down deep beneath sarcasm and clever quips.

"What is wrong with me?" you whisper, stepping back to wrap the towel around you again.

You can't look at him, or the way the lines of his face are deep with sorrow. It fucking hurts and you don't want that, that's why you ran in the first place, why you'd fallen so far into dreaming that you hadn't felt anything for so long. Turning you walk into the bedroom, shutting the door behind you as you desperately grasp for just a sliver of the calm you'd felt.

"No, no, no, no," your throat is so tight it's hard to breathe but somehow the word keeps falling from your lips.

Tearing through your dresser drawers you find clothes, struggling to get them on with shaking hands. All those things you'd forgotten, all the blood and pain, weeks of watching him only able to breathe with the help of machines. Could you really be blamed for wanting to escape from it? For wanting to find some kind of peace when your heart had broken again and again while watching him lie in a hospital bed, paler than the sheets.

"Sweetheart, please. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

The voice coming from behind you makes you realize that the shirt you'd tugged on wasn't even buttoned, wasn't even yours it was his. One that you'd picked up because the pattern had damn near blinded you with the ugliness but it'd been something he'd wear and make it look amazing.

"It's all my fault. I almost got you killed, and for what? A few thousand? There were better jobs."

"None of them in a place so beautiful, and we'd been going stagnant for weeks."

"I was bored! My boredom got you," you stall when you feel his gaze sharpen between your shoulder blades, swallowing thickly before continuing. "Almost got you killed. Even Ariadne said the company was shifty. I should have listened to her and Arthur, she never notices anything except for the next maze she wants to construct."

"It wasn't too bad, though." his palms skim over your shoulders, turning you to button your shirt when your numb fingers do little more than fumble with them. "Do you remember the beach? We slipped out of that hotel without a word to either of them and played around like children."

"I don't think children do half the things, we did."

"I'm sure they would have been smarter than to go swimming starkers in the middle of fall but other than that I think we were pretty tame."

The smile on your lips must be only half of what it should be because he lifts your chin with the knuckle of his index finger, tracing your lower lip with his thumb.

"Do you remember the cathedrals? The way you raved over them put Ariadne to shame. Talking about the arches, and the way the ceiling seemed to hold the echoes of hymns. You got pretty poetic for a bit there..."

"Stop it." 

"Stained glass painting the floors, the echo of the bells ringing all around us. You told me you could practically taste the colours on the air, feel them on your fingertips.

"Stop it!" twisting out of his grip, you cover your ears with your hands, eyes clenching closed.

His hands are gentle but firm as he wraps them around your wrists to pull your hands away from your ears. Pressing kisses to the white knuckles he tugs you close, skimming his lips over your cheek, across your temple, resting his scruffy cheek against yours.

"I proposed to you there and you said yes." his voice is husky, fingers tightening around your wrists. "I asked you to stay with me come hell or high water and you said yes. Why won't you come home with me?"

Tugging futilely, you hear a low sound and it takes you a low moment to realize it's you sobbing. It hurts, ripping itself from your throat as you struggle to break loose.

"You bloody well promised to stay with me through sickness and health." you can feel the tenseness of his jaw as he clenches it to growl through his teeth. "Sickness and health. I'm keeping up my end, darling, I'm not even upset that you broke yours by running. But you will by God come home with me."

"I can't."

"You can and you will." the whisper is harsh as he releases your wrists, wrapping his arms around your waist as you bend backwards trying to push away from him. "We're going to wake up, together. We're going to go and eat something more than fluids, together. And if you keep fighting me I won't be responsible for what I do to you. Why can't you stop running?"

"I'm not running! I'm-"

"Do you want me to go? Is that what you want?"

"No, I-"

"I can't take this anymore, love. I really can't." his voice is so soft you have to strain to hear it. Arms squeezing you so tightly it's hard to breathe. "So this is the last time I'm going to ask you, the very last, because I don't think my heart can handle you lookin' at me like a total stranger again. Come home."


	13. Chapter 13

You'd forgotten how much you hated the taste of adrenaline in your mouth, your heart racing as you stare up at him. His words echo in your ears, tearing at you, leaving you breathless from the pain. 'Come home.' like its so simple, like those two words don't claw through your chest and begin tearing out pieces of your heart. When you don't answer right away his grip loosens, his lips pressing together and he starts to pull away.

"How many?"

He stares, blinking at you in confusion.

"How many what?"

"How many times?" Your fingers grip his arms, mouth dry even as you try to smile. "I need to know how much I need to make up for."

The sudden constriction around your ribs makes you yelp, his fingers digging and sure to leave bruises. His laughter in your ear makes the knot in your chest ease, the twisting your stomach settle.

"Twenty at least" he murmurs against your throat. "You stubborn chit. I even had to change my face twice"

"What for?"

"Because you're you." Snorting he pulls back, his lips crashing hungrily against yours. "I've never met a woman who fought so much in my life."

"You're sure we can't-"

"No."

Sighing, you bury your face in his shoulder, feeling the tenseness leave him.

"I'm going to hate this." You mutter, fingers gripping the fabric on his suit jacket. " I have to watch you die again."

The short slap to your rear makes you jump, eyes watering at the sting of it. You don't catch what he says after, he shoves you away and turns to pace the room. Rubbing your hand over the sting to try to soothe it, you're only half paying attention when he grabs your free hand and drags you out of the bedroom.

"Where the hell are we-"

"You know how much I hate your car?" His tone is conversational, his thumb brushing over the veins in your wrist. "Loathe that eye sore. Let's crash it."

"I don't fucking think so."

"It's a blight, a blemish in your otherwise very tasteful collection of things."

"No! I like my car, lets crash yours instead."

You almost fall over him when he stops on the stairs, turning to look at you with a horrified expression.

"You want me to-" shaking his head, he mutters under his breath as he starts to drag you down the stairs again."Women have no taste in fine machinery."

"It's just a car."

The moment the two of you hit the sidewalk a woman shoulders Eames as she passes. It doesn't get any better as you make your way to the garage. Watching them slowly close in around Eames has your throat closing, your fingers tightening with his.

"You've got to calm down." he murmurs as he pulls you close, his lips brushing over your temple. "I know how you think love, being attacked and killed by your subconscious isn't the way I'd prefer to go, hmm?"

"I feel like I can't breathe."

You shriek when he's suddenly yanked away from you, fingers digging into your upper arms to hold you back from leaping in after him. The sleeve of your shirt gives, with a hiss, the seam pulling apart as you yank free to dive into the mass of bodies that have closed over him. Blood fills your mouth, blinded by bright flashes of light when an elbow catches you on the jaw.

"Eames!"

A glimpse of his shirt catches your eye, and you dive for it. Ignoring the fingers that claw at you.

"No, no, no, not like this"

You lose your footing, slipping and falling beneath the crush. Your heart stops when you feel something warm and wet on your stomach, the blows and kicks a distant memory at the realization that you're lying in a pool of blood. There isn't enough air left in your lungs to scream but you try anyways, the high pitched sound lost to the sound of your own blood pounding in your ears. When a foot slams down on the back of your neck the instant pain cuts off your scream before slipping unconscious.

"Hey. Hey!"

Groggily you open your eyes, it's almost to much effort. The moment they're open again, the lights are too bright.

"None of that, keep them."

It'd be easier to keep them open if you sat up, your mind offers, even though you're sure that doing just that is impossible.

"She awake?" the second voice is softer, warmer, than the first. 

"You saw the chemicals she cocktailed. It's a wonder she didn't kill herself "

"Think that's what she meant to do?"

Slim fingers brushed over your forehead, moving to lightly force your eyes open. It took a moment but Arthur's solemn face slowly became clear, his lips curling subtly as you blink up at him.

"There we go. Now keep them open and try to sit up."

Small hands slide under your shoulders, a spill of chestnut hair at the edge of your vision.

"When you're better I am gonna to kick your ass."

"Ariadne!" The cool voice is full of reprimand but barely rises above a murmur "You asked to help, that is not it."

"But look at what she did to herself, to Eames!"

"Later."

Violently you roll onto your side, your stomach heaving though there's nothing in it to eject. Your breath comes in light pants, head spinning as you weakly try to push yourself back to a sitting position.

"Is she awake?"

Your eyes widen at the tight embrace that almost smothers you, lips brushing your forehead as he continues squeezing until you feel like you can't take in air.

"Let her breath Eames! Jesus."

"You do that again and I'll find you and spend years paddling your hide, do you understand?"

Silently you nod your head, arms wrapping around him to cling to the back of his shirt. Despite your protestations, how you had wanted to stay, the reality of him is so much the better. Even the smell of cold sweat on his skin mixing with his cologne is better.

"Good." Pulling back, he stares at you, hand lifting to push your hair away from your face. "I still think I should beat you. Gave me a stroke coming home to see you hooked up like that. Who taught you to mix chemicals?"

"I just-"

"I'm not worth that, ever, you hear me!" his hands are cupping your shoulders as he shakes you, growling his words between clenched teeth.

"I know, I'm sorry, but-"

"No!"

There's something niggling the back of your mind, something that hurt more than watching him bleed out in the back of Arthur's car. But you can't catch the thought while he's glaring at you, his normally mockingly cheerful face gaunt.

"Sorry."

"Good." Nodding his head decisively, he leans in to kiss you, a harsh press of lips, before pulling away and turning to Arthur. "We're all going out to eat. I want her to have a proper meal, the only fluid she's having is a good pint."

"Eames... I don't think-"

"That's right, you don't. You research. So let's get on that, shall we?"

His hand trails over your arm as he stands, fingers trailing over the back of your hand. It's not until after they've left that Ariadne sits down next to you to pull the IVs from your arm, a quietness to her that you can't help but be wary of.

"Did you tell him?"

"Tell him?" You frown at her, shaking your head as a soft sound fills your ears. It's echoing and sounds familiar, but you can't quite remember where you heard it.

"You know you have to eventually." Grabbing a brush from the nightstand she hands it to you before tucking a leg under her, staring at you.

"Ariadne, what the hell..."

"Look I know it hurts, well no I don't know personally, but I assume it would be a bitch and a half."

"Ariadne..."

"You girls about ready to go?" Eames rolls his eyes at the two of you still sitting on the bed. "Get a move on, now. Arthur's found a deli down the way. Food's supposed to be so good when you get home you sleep like a baby."

Your hand slides off your lap to rest against your stomach, a hollow pang rolling through it as you smile at his grin. The sound is growing louder, sobs, the sound is sobs and it's slowly obliterating anything else.

"Just give us a minute! She looks like hell, I wouldn't want to be seen out in public like that if I was her either."

"She looks fine to me."

"She's awake, that's all you care about. Get out. Shoo!" Once he retreated from her glare, she turns back to you, her face concerned. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"About the- Well you know, the-" lips twisting, she sighs, her hands rolling as she tries to figure out how to word it as she grows more and more frustrated. "Ugh, that fucking chemist! I'm sure he didn't know but I'm going to blame him anyways. If he hadn't mixed the chemicals like he did."

"Then what?"

The sobbing is growing louder, your arms wrapping around yourself as you recognize the sobs as your own. Throat closing, you shake your head, picking up the discarded brush to pull it through your hair. Shoving at the memory you'd been so desperately reaching for, you squeeze your eyes shut trying to concentrate on going out with Eames and not having everyone stare at you.

"Well you wouldn't have- You don't remember?"

"Remember what, Ariadne?" Your voice snaps, your frustration at the continuing sobbing being thrown at her because you can't seem to shake it.

The last thing you want to remember is watching Eames dying in your arms, or beneath the ravenous crowd that was your subconscious. You just want the sobbing to stop, you want to go eat something so your stomach will stop feeling like an empty room, you want to go and try to get back into the habit of living. Throwing the brush onto the bed, you almost don't catch what she says, tearing through the wardrobe to try and find something classy to wear, Eames loved seeing you dressed to the nines. But when the words finally make it into your ears, your mind making sense of the sounds coming from her mouth, your fingers go still.

"You lost the baby."


End file.
